


Save

by 20Zvorak17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean is the parent in this household, Fem!Sam, Gen, Sam more isn't trying not to than is trying to, Suicidal Ideation, suicidal!Sam, teenage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 01:00:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11498469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/20Zvorak17/pseuds/20Zvorak17
Summary: When Sam was nine, she'd insisted she was too big to be sitting in Dean's lap and by eleven she physically had been. When the shock and the fury fall off and the sobbing begins, though, Dean just doesn't know what else to do. Just hauls her against his chest and rocks her like he did when she was two and couldn't sleep; five and had a nightmare; seven and didn't understand why Dad had yelled at her.Besides which, maybe he needs her close right now; has to keep her right here until he can figure out how to save her.





	Save

Sam is thirteen. She's thirteen and she hates everything. She hates moving and how her brother's better at everything and how she wants to hate him but she just loves him too much for that because he always puts her first.

Hates her body that, despite barely being in its teenage years looks eighteen--people take her for anywhere from 15 to Dean's age to older--and garners attention that would've been disturbing even if she was legal.  

Hates that wearing denim and flannel makes her different,  _again_ , one more way she's not a proper thirteen year old girl. She's pretty sure at this age her best friend shouldn't be her seventeen year old brother-- _father figure_ , really. She should know all the characters from, whatever,  _Boy Meets World,_ not fluent latin; exorcism rites and the Pater Noster, these  _aren't_ things she should have to worry about and she hates it.

Hates that moving so often means there's always a bully and never a friend. She's angry all the fucking time, angry at the world and the God who abandoned it and she hates that, too.

Hates living ~~and wants to die~~.

She knows what she's read and seen that 'thirteen is so young ( _but she feels so fucking old_ ) and her whole life is ahead of her ( _all fifteen more years of it before some witch or shtriga or ghoul gets her?_ ) and she's not even old enough to know how bad life gets ( _watch a wendigo burn and tell me about how bad life gets, like I haven't seen the things that make up your nightmares, like I don't rub shoulders with the dregs of humanity, like regretful alcoholics and high-functioning sociopaths aren't_ precisely _our kind, like my father didn't watch my mother die, stapled to the ceiling above my crib bleeding on my blankets and my tiny fingers, like my brother, only four years my senior, isn't the closest thing I have to a Dad because that widower is killing monsters that you'll never know exist in towns you'll never visit, like civilians know shit about life, she thinks_ ) but the literature wasn't written for someone who lives a life like hers. 

It was written for people who have the kind of life she can only dream of. The kind that her family  _protects_. She tries not to be resentful. ~~It's so fucking _hard,_ though. ~~Sometimes she even thinks she succeeds.

 

The waitress he's talking to--DJ maybe?--is just about to tell him what time she gets off of her shift when his phone vibrates. The only person who would be calling him now is Sam and Sam's important. "Hello?"

"Dean?" His name is barely a whisper. "Dean, I did something stupid." Her voice goes loud and the pitch slides like a glissando. He slides into Baby and he thinks  _Great, she's high_. "Don't be mad," she pleads. "I just wanted to breathe."

"I'm not mad, kiddo," and it's not really true; he's furious that she thought drugs might be the solution. To be frank, though, the comedown will be enough to put her off in the future. "Just tell me what you took."

"The Atavan." Muscle relaxers. That's not too bad then...wait the atavan as in...all of it?

"How many?" He asks. After too many moments of silence he presses again, blowing a second stoplight. "How many did you take, Sammy?"

"I didn't mean to!" Bursts out of her and he practically puts his foot through the gas pedal, going from 80-110 in ten seconds flat. "I just wanted to be able to breathe! But two weren't working and neither did two more or two more or...I probably took about twenty."

Shit. Twenty fucking prescription pills. Okay. Think Winchester. Focus.

"Where are you, Sam?" 

"On the floor." She answers and it's clear in her voice that she's drifting. The speedometer edges towards 150.

"Get on your stomach," he orders. "You have to throw up some of the pills, Sam. As many as you can."

"But they're  _working_." Her tone is petulant, more suited to 'I don't want to go to school' than 'I don't want to make an attempt to not die'.

"You trust me?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Then get the pills out. Come on, Sammy. Sam." There's command in his voice at the end there, his parent tone, and he can hear her making retching noises. Which, good; he is not in the mood to watch her get her stomach pumped.

The noises stop as he's pulling into the driveway, making a mad dash for Sam's room. The thirteen stairs between the first floor and the second feel insurmountable; the distance to where Sam lies is as good as a thousand miles.  He mounts the stairs, barges through her door and drops to his knees beside her. She's kind of...blank.  Balanced back on her heels, back against her bed she stares straight ahead. She looks to him when he kneels. Then suddenly, a keening, shrieking sound comes out as she dissolves into sobbing. She sounds like a bean sidhe, looks like it might be her soul, her  _life_ that she calls for. 

Nearly half a decade ago, Sam decided she was too old for sitting in Dean's lap; two years later she'd simply been too  _big_ for it. Too much arms and legs and muscle. Now, at thirteen, she's both too old  _and_ too big to sit in her brother's lap, but he's genuinely at a loss for anything else to do. He stands her up, sits on the bed and hoists her up, hauling her against his chest. He just rocks her back and forth, 5'8 of Sammy curled into a tiny ball, small choked sobs falling out of her mouth interspersed with the occasional bean sidhe style singing. 

He knows he hasn't fixed anything. But he's stopped her from making everything worse. It's enough.

Her sobs are more expressive than her words are. There's relief and despair and she's repeating, like a loop,  _sorrysosorryI'msorry_

"You don't got to be sorry, Sammy," he murmurs into her hair as he rocks her like he'd done when she was little. "You don't worry, okay? I got ya, baby girl; alright, big brother's got you. I'm right here." She cries harder. There's the Parent in his voice again, she thinks before he smooths her hair back. 

This is all he has to do: Rock Sam, whisper that everything's going to be okay to Sam, don't start crying, too.

In his defense....Two out of three isn't failing.

 

 


End file.
